


The Only Thing Keeping Me Dry

by SkysongMA



Series: This Is Not About Love [12]
Category: Adventure Time
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-07
Updated: 2017-04-07
Packaged: 2018-10-15 21:30:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10558010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkysongMA/pseuds/SkysongMA
Summary: To Fionna’s disappointment, Marshall Lee played quiet songs. “I wanted to mossssh,” she said, shoving her hands in her pockets.“Didn’t Abraham Lincoln prove you’ve had enough of that?” said G.B. Fionna stuck out her tongue at him.But she was mostly silent. Even G.B. could admit it was hard to think of anything else when Marshall Lee was singing.Though G.B. wasn’t all that interested, he kept looking at Marshall Lee’s face and frowning. Pale. Paler. Palest. His voice was quieter, too. G.B. suspected he wasn’t playing any loud songs because he couldn’t scream like usual.G.B. did not care, any more than he cared that most of the songs sounded like they were about Marshall Lee’s mother. Marshall Lee’s problems were his own stupid problems. It wasn’t like he would ever ask for help in the first place.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Title from a Postal Service song, though I can't remember which one right now.
> 
> If this one is a little weird, it's because it's actually the first story I wrote in this universe.

G.B. was almost shocked when Fionna called him. Not that she hadn't been in touch; she texted him daily, and they'd gone to see the new Disney movie last week, and lots of other good things since the Halloween party. But it wasn’t the same.

So he crossed his fingers that nothing bad had happened before answering the phone, even though he knew nothing was wrong and if it was, crossing his fingers would do nothing. "Don't shout, Fionna, please. I'm on campus so I can't put my phone on speaker."

She responded in a whisper, which his ears appreciated. "I need to ask you a super secret favor, Jeebles."

"It's not another party, is it?" It was supposed to be a joke, but it came off flat.

Before the party, Fionna probably wouldn't even have noticed, but now her voice faltered. "No," she said after a beat. "I'm kinda off the party thing for a while."

Before G.B. could figure out how to apologize, or even what he was apologizing for, Fionna continued. "Nah. I need you to help me talk Cake into something."

G.B. frowned. "If Cake doesn't want you to do something, it's probably a bad idea, Fi."

"This is so totally not," said Fionna, righteously indignant. G.B. smiled in spite of himself. "Look. Okay. I want to go to an 21 and over show, and I can do it if I'm with a grown-up, and Cake refuses to be my grown-up, even though the Scabby Knees is the opening band, and I really, really want to see them live."

"So I'll take you," said G.B., taking the lid off his tea so he could add sugar.

Fionna made an indecisive noise, and that was all he needed to know.

"It's one of Marshall Lee's acts, isn't it?" he said, moving his hand away so he wouldn't knock the tea over. He'd been feeling so weird lately.

Fionna sighed. "Look, G.B., I'm sorry. I just won't go, okay? I've seen Marshall Lee fifty bajillion times at this point."

"He does a different set every time," said G.B. absently.

"How do you know that?" said Fionna, honest curiosity in her voice.

G.B. took his hand away from his tea again. It was too hot to drink anyway. "Oh, everyone on campus won't shut up about him either since he played here. And he never..." He always lectured Fionna when she didn't finish her sentence, so he couldn't leave his own undone. "He never did like being predictable.”

"G.B..." said Fionna, and it was surprising. She'd called him Jeebles from day one, along with Jee-bub, J-rubs, and so many others he'd lost track. Almost never G.B.

He didn't know he'd actually liked the nicknames. Coming from her, anyway. He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Fionna," he said, unsure what he was going to lead with, but then she continued.

All in one breath, just like always. "Look, okay, Marshall Lee really messed you up, and I know I'm just a kid, but I'm not stupid. I know you messed him up too. I've listened to his songs."

G.B. had been all set to make a glib dismissal--he'd been practicing in the back of his head ever since that first awful concert. But the mention of music made his voice catch.

"And now I tried to make things better and I just messed it up more." Her voice cracked, and she stopped, taking in a deep breath. "So I'm not gonna mess with it anymore, okay? I promise. I just won't go."

G.B. put his hand down, slowly, and picked up his tea. He inhaled the steam. When he was sure his voice would be calm and even and sure, he said, "Fionna. This is supposed to be an apology. Let me take you to the show, okay? I don't know who this Scabby Knees is, but I'm sure they're worth a watch."

Fionna whined. "But--I mean--"

"Fionna," G.B. repeated. "What time is the show?"

And that was how they ended up at Marshall Lee's set several hours later.

It wasn’t standing around listening to Marshall Lee that bothered G.B., anyway. Marshall Lee had a good lineup now, a group as talented as he was, and the Scabby Knees were actually pretty good. Nor was it the thought of being surrounded by a sweaty proto-moshpit.

No. It was after the show, when he would have to sit and be civil while Marshall Lee teased Fionna and threw subtle barbs in G.B.’s direction.

Oh, well. He was here, and Fionna was happy, and no one was trying to molest her. Things were good.

***

Fionna enjoyed herself—G.B. had to twice wade into a group of moshers to pull her out.

“Jeeze, Jeebles, let me have a little fun,” said Fionna, smacking his shoulder. The mosh had lifted her spirits, and she was finally acting like herself, and G.B. was more relieved than he cared to admit, though he didn’t show it in his face.

G.B. crossed his arms. “I promised Cake I would bring you home unscathed. You already have a bruise on your elbow. That’s a mark against me, and we haven’t even been here an hour.”

“Do I?” Fionna scrutinized her elbow. “OMG! It looks like Abraham Lincoln! Cake’s going to freak!”

***

Marshall Lee’s band came on late for some reason or another. By that time, Fionna had managed to push her way up front, dragging G.B. behind her and using him for extra leverage. When Marshall Lee came on stage, she threw her hands in the air, and he winked at her. G.B. just scowled.

As Marshall Lee set up, G.B. couldn’t help but notice how pale he looked. Well, Marshall Lee was always pale. He probably hadn’t slept. Marshall Lee seemed to think a good night’s eight hours was for losers. Or maybe he was already drunk. G.B. shoved his hands in his pockets.

“Oh, cheer up, Jeebles,” said Fionna, grabbing his arm. “You said yourself this is going to be a good show.”

“It will be. That doesn’t mean I have to be effusive about it.” Fionna made a face at him.

***

To Fionna’s disappointment, Marshall Lee played quiet songs. “I wanted to mossssh,” she said, shoving her hands in her pockets.

“Didn’t Abraham Lincoln prove you’ve had enough of that?” said G.B. Fionna stuck out her tongue at him.

But she was mostly silent. Even G.B. could admit it was hard to think of anything else when Marshall Lee was singing.

Though G.B. wasn’t all that interested, he kept looking at Marshall Lee’s face and frowning. Pale. Paler. Palest. His voice was quieter, too. G.B. suspected he wasn’t playing any loud songs because he couldn’t scream like usual.

G.B. did not care, any more than he cared that most of the songs sounded like they were about Marshall Lee’s mother. Marshall Lee’s problems were his own stupid problems. It wasn’t like he would ever ask for help in the first place.

***

After the show, Fionna dragged G.B. backstage so she could talk to Marshall Lee. And show him Abraham Lincoln. And ask him where he’d met the rest of his bandmates. Et cetera.

Marshall Lee was slumped sideways in a chair, replacing one of the strings of his bass. The rest of the band was packing up their equipment and paid no mind to Fionna or G.B. It hadn’t been just the lighting; Marshall Lee was white as a sheet. Figuratively speaking. G.B. fixed his attention on Marshall Lee’s bass instead.

“Hey! You came to see me!” said Marshall Lee when he saw them. His smile was sincere for Fionna, lopsided and snarky for G.B. “Even you, Bubba. I thought you’d have split by now. Isn’t it past your bedtime?” G.B. flushed, but he did not look at Marshall Lee. No point in rising to the bait this early in the evening.

“Jeebles doesn’t have a bedtime, and neither do I,” said Fionna, hanging off Marshall Lee’s chair like a monkey. “I mean, don’t you think sixteen’s a little old for a bedtime? I don’t care if I’m still a minor or whatever.”

“It’s pretty lame, yeah.” Marshall Lee’s tongue poked between his teeth as he turned the tuning key for the string. He plucked it and winced. “Ugh, baby, why’d you give out on me now?”

“At least it didn’t break during the show.” Fionna straightened up. “Look! Look what I got during the opener!”

Marshall Lee inspected her bruise and nodded gravely. “Abraham Lincoln is pretty dope.”

She leaned down and squinted at him. “So what’s up with the set, huh? I wanted to jump around, but it was all emotional and stuff.”

“Eh, wasn’t feeling it tonight. Sorry, babe.” Marshall Lee rubbed his throat. It might have been a tic, but G.B. watched it anyway because he couldn’t ignore the voice in his head that said Marshall Lee did not look well. But Marshall Lee was terrible at taking care of himself. This was nothing new.

Fionna frowned. “Hey, are you sick? You look really gross.” Marshall Lee scowled up at her, but Fionna ignored that and pressed the back of her hand to his forehead. “Sweet crispy Jesus! You’re burning up!”

“Don’t be obscene, Fionna,” said G.B., even though he was already stepping forward. He wanted to get a look at Marshall Lee himself.

Fionna was only interested in Marshall Lee. “Why were you performing if you’re sick? You shoulda stayed home, man.”

Marshall Lee smacked her hand away and got up, resting his bass against the chair. “You can’t just crap out on things when you don’t feel so hot. That’s how the real world works, Fionna. Sucks, but it’s true.” He sighed. “So why’d you bring this loser instead of Cake, huh?”

“Where are you sleeping tonight, Marshall Lee?” said G.B., breaking across the conversation before Marshall Lee could derail it.

Marshall Lee glared at him. “And why is that any of your business, Bubba?”

“Because if you sleep in subpar conditions, you won’t get better, and Fionna will not get to mosh. And then both of us will have to listen to her.” Fionna pulled a face at him.

“Don’t care. It’s none of your damn business.” He crossed his arms. “What are you doing here, anyway? Fionna doesn’t need a babysitter.”

“Cake wouldn’t come with me, and I needed a buddy since it’s 21 and over. I wanted to see the Scabby Knees, and Cake was not down,” Fionna put in.

Marshall Lee glanced back at her. “One of these days she’ll let you grow up.”

G.B. ignored that comment, as did Fionna. “Let me take your temperature. If you haven’t got a fever, I’ll leave.”  
  
Marshall Lee’s attention snapped back to G.B. To G.B.’s surprise, Marshall Lee didn’t glare at him. He looked grumpy, all right, but the main emotion in his eyes was confusion. “What do you care? We don’t like each other, remember? Here I thought you’d just let me die on the street.”

Since Fionna was there, G.B. decided to ignore the dig. She was watching both of them closely. Best to set a good example, then. “I’m going to get my bag. I’ve got a thermometer in it.”

“Of course you do,” Marshall Lee muttered, slumping back in the chair.

***

When G.B. returned with his bag and Fionna’s coat and backpack, Marshall Lee was showing Fionna how to play “Smoke on the Water.”

“I will not appreciate it if you get Fionna sick,” said G.B.

Fionna made a face. “Ew. Good point.” She wiggled away from Marshall Lee and took her things. “You can teach me later.”

“Thanks for that, Jeebles,” Marshall Lee muttered. He balanced his bass between his legs and watched through slitted eyes as G.B. took an electronic thermometer from his bag and covered it with a plastic sleeve. “You are the fussiest man in existence, you know that?”

“Excuse me for not wanting to catch your sickness,” said G.B. absently. He turned the thermometer on and inspected the readout.

“Not sick.”

G. B. shoved the thermometer in Marshall Lee’s open mouth before Marshall Lee could say anything else. Marshall Lee scowled up at him around the thermometer, but he didn’t spit it out.. “Keep it under your tongue.”

Fionna finished putting on her coat and leaned on Marshall Lee’s chair again, watching the readout. “Jeezly-crow! Look at that!”

“It’s not done yet, Fionna. Don’t exclaim,” said G.B. The thermometer beeped; G.B. plucked it from between Marshall Lee’s lips. “101. Not high enough to take you to a doctor, but high enough that you need to take something to get it down.” He tucked the thermometer in his bag and looked at Marshall Lee. “Now tell me, Marshall Lee. Where are you going to be tonight?”

Marshall Lee looked away, tightening his hands around the neck of his bass. “Hotel, probably. Like always. What’s it to you?”

G.B. winced. He couldn’t help it. “Absolutely not. Do you know how disgusting hotel rooms are? You’ll just catch something else.”

“He can sleep at my place!” Fionna cried.

“No,” said G.B. and Marshall Lee at the same time. The first thing they agreed on in… ever.

Fionna’s face fell. “Aw, why not? We’ve got the pull-out bed. Cake won’t care if you’re sick.”

Marshall Lee shook his head. “She’d have my head for suggesting it, Fi. Sorry. Cake likes you better than me.”

G.B. put his bag over his shoulders. It was supposed to stop him from speaking, but he said it anyway. “You can stay with me.”

Both Marshall Lee and Fionna stared at him. G.B. made a great show of walking to the trash can and throwing away the thermometer cover so he could have a moment to collect himself. “I have the room, and my apartment is properly sanitized. Also, I have ibuprofen, to take your fever down. And my apartment is right next to the hospital.” Marshall Lee’s brows drew together at hospital, but he still looked too shocked to say anything. “No argument. Come on. I have to drop Fionna off, and I want to go to bed.”

“Of course you do,” Marshall Lee muttered. “Fucking stick in the mud.”

“What have I said about that kind of language in front of Fionna?”

“Awww, Jeebles, quit treating me like a little kid!”

***

Fionna protested both going home and Marshall Lee’s destination the entire way. G.B. tuned her out. He had to admit that Marshall Lee was better at reasoning with her.

Once they arrived at Fionna’s house, Fionna came up with a new idea. “I know! I can make you chicken soup! Cake’ll teach me!” She leaned around the passenger seat. “I’ll come by when it’s done, okay?”

G.B. nodded. “That would be perfect, Fionna. Make sure you put lots of vegetables in it—he’s probably sick because he never gets proper nutrition.”

Marshall Lee huffed. “Sheesh. Between you and Cake, I’m surprised you haven’t nagged me to death.”

Fionna ignored this. She was already talking about her soup.

When G.B. interjected that he was pretty sure you could not put cough drops in chicken soup, Marshall Lee caught G.B.’s eye in the rearview mirror, the faintest hint of a smile on his face. G.B. looked away. He did not want Marshall Lee to—to misconstrue this.

***

G.B. brought Marshall Lee in by the back way to his house. He didn’t feel like explaining to Pepper, and she was doubtless already asleep. Best not to compound odd behavior with rudeness.

To his surprise, Marshall Lee made no sardonic comments. He glanced around the living room, his eyes flicking from object to object. “…So Pepper lives downstairs?”

G.B. nodded as he hung up his coat. He flicked his fingers; Marshall Lee pulled his jacket over his head and threw it at him. G.B. bit back a sigh. At least he knew it would get hung up this way. He put Marshall Lee’s jacket next to his own and resisted the urge to smooth the rolled-up sleeves. “I forgot you’ve never been here. We both decided we would appreciate more space. Now we can still see each other, but Pepper can have her own life, too.”

Marshall Lee’s lips curled. “Bet she still makes you dinner.”

“Once in a while. Sit down, Marshall Lee. I need to go get some medicine.”

Again, to G.B.’s surprise, Marshall Lee just—sat, though he turned the chair around backwards first. But he did not argue, and he did not scowl.

They ought to have been arguing by now. Marshall Lee was quite sick.

G.B. opened his refrigerator and took out the largest bottle of ibuprofen, as well as a wadded-up plastic bag full of cough drops. He frowned at it. “You still don’t like the strong ones, do you?” he said absently.

Marshall Lee’s mouth twitched. “You keep your drugs in the fridge?”

G.B. set the cough drops aside and opened the ibuprofen bottle. “Pills need to be kept in a dark and dry place. I can manage both the temperature and humidity of my refrigerator, so it’s perfect.” He counted out four pills—eight hours. Good. Did he have anything that would make Marshall Lee drowsy? Oh, but he wouldn’t take it anyway. “When did you eat last?”

Marshall Lee made a face. “Dude. You know I don’t eat before a show.”

“Oh, that’s right. You need to eat something now, or you’ll just throw up.”

The face remained. “So you’re making me stay with you and take medicine and eat healthy. I shoulda just gone to the hotel.”

G.B. bit his lip. “…I have cupcakes.”

Marshall Lee froze, and then he started fidgeting.

“Cherry chip with strawberry frosting,” said G.B., already reaching for the container. He touched his mouth and realized he was smiling. Stupid. He schooled his face back to blankness before closing the refrigerator door.

Marshall Lee wrapped his arms around the chair. “You’re going to take the shit out of me for this later.”

“Nonsense.” G.B. reached into the cupboard above the sink and took out a small plate. He put three cupcakes and the pills on it. “That’s what you would do, Marshall Lee. Do you want milk?” Marshall Lee nodded, reluctantly. “Good. That’ll help, too.” He grabbed a glass.

“I can get it myself, dude.” Marshall Lee was still fidgeting. G.B. looked over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised. Marshall Lee stopped fidgeting and dropped his eyes. “I can.”

“It isn’t a question of whether you can or not. It’s a question of whether you will.” G.B. paused, his hand on the fridge door. “…And whether or not I’ll do it for you. Which I will. Stay put.” He poured the milk, put it away, and brought the plate and glass over to the table. “Eat first. If you skip the pills, I’ll smack you.”

Marshall Lee looked down at the plate of cupcakes with an expression that wasn’t quite a frown.

“Eat,” G.B. repeated. “I need to find my other cough drops.”

***

The Luden’s cough drops—which weren’t really cough drops, but at least they were something for Marshall Lee to suck on—were downstairs, in Pepper’s medicine cabinet. She was asleep. G.B. thought about leaving her a note, lest she come upstairs and see Marshall Lee, but that was stupid. Knowing Marshall Lee, he’d escape while G.B. was sleeping. Or he’d just leave right now.

But he hadn’t left; Marshall Lee was finishing his glass of milk. The plate was empty except for three cupcake wrappers.

“Good,” said G.B., setting the box of Luden’s down in front of Marshall Lee. “Thank you.” He took the plate and cup and set them in the sink, ignoring the way Marshall Lee’s eyes followed him. G.B. turned to face him; Marshall Lee looked away. “Now. You need to get some sleep.”

Marshall Lee got to his feet. “Couch it is.”

“No.” Marshall Lee blinked. “You can have the bed. It’s right next to the bathroom, in case you have to—”

Marshall Lee made a face. “Jeeze, dude. I’m not that sick.”

G.B. shrugged. “Ibuprofen is hard on your stomach.” He rubbed his arms. “…Besides. My couch is uncomfortable. I wouldn’t ask you to add that to your list of problems.”

Marshall Lee leaned against the chair. Then he looked G.B. full in the face. “Are we sure you’re not sick? Or infected with a bodysnatcher or something? Last thing I remember, you hated my guts.”

G.B. closed his eyes. Well. At least he was getting what he expected. “We don’t get along. That much is true. But that doesn’t mean I’m heartless. If nothing else, Fionna cares about you, and I won’t have you catching pneumonia and making her miserable when you die.”

Marshall Lee stared at him. Then he started laughing—weakly, one hand pressed to his temple. “Christ. I thought I was the one with issues. You are the weirdest fucking person I know.”

“So you’ve told me,” said G.B., his lips thin.

***

G.B. left Marshall Lee to sit still while he changed the coverings on his bed. He set the current set of sheets aside because they weren’t really dirty. As he dug under the bed for the other comforter and sheet set, Marshall Lee appeared. He leaned against the door, smirking. It lacked its usual effect, since he was still too pale. And because G.B. was too busy to let it infuriate him. “Got some cum stains you need to hide, princess? You know I don’t care about that kind of stuff.”

G.B.’s ears went red. He rubbed them, wishing he could turn off his response to Marshall Lee. “No. I don’t want you getting germs on my good sheets. Anyway, I can’t ask you to sleep on my sweat.”

“Still trying to make me comfortable, huh?” Marshall Lee’s voice was quiet, not rude. G.B. paid him no mind. Down that road was danger.

He found the sheets and comforter and started making the bed. Marshall Lee came up behind him as he shook out the fitted sheet. G.B. stiffened, but Marshall Lee just claimed the pillowcases from the floor. “I’m not that sick,” Marshall Lee muttered. “I can make the damn bed.”

G.B. just tweaked one brow. Marshall Lee huffed and started pulling a case off one of the pillows. He tried to stuff the pillow in the new case and scowled when it didn’t work.

“You’re not doing it right,” said G.B. quietly.

Marshall Lee scowled. “I can never get it to work the other way.”

“Trade.” G.B. passed Marshall Lee the sheet and took the case and pillow. He fixed the pillows, and Marshall Lee shoved the fitted sheet into place, grumbling under his breath. When the sheet was on, Marshall Lee sighed and flopped face-down on the bed.

G.B. shoved a pillow at him. “Take your shoes off.”

“Mmph.” Marshall Lee rolled over and tugged off one boot, then the other. “I’m surprised you didn’t make me do that at the door. Or put on little booties or something.”

“I had other things on my mind.” G.B. put the other pillow in its case and shoved that at Marshall Lee as well. Marshall Lee stuffed his socks into his boots, and G.B. picked them up. “Do you want something to change into?”

Marshall Lee wrinkled his nose. “Dude. I sleep in my clothes all the time.” He rolled on his stomach and watched with narrowed eyes as G.B. unfolded the flat sheet and threw it on top of him. “…You don’t have to be nice just because I feel gross, you know. If you don’t like me, you don’t like me. Whatever.”

G.B. unfolded the comforter. It was bulky, and he was glad of it. He did not have to look Marshall Lee in the eyes while he fussed with it. It was not cowardice; it was self-protection. If Marshall Lee saw anything real in G.B.’s eyes, he’d use it. “I’m not.”

Marshall Lee squinched up his face. “Not pretending?”

G.B. threw the comforter over Marshall Lee. He was tempted, for a moment, to smother Marshall Lee with it, but that was something friends did. And they weren’t friends anymore.

But he couldn’t leave that question unanswered. “I’m not just being nice to you because you don’t feel well. That would be low.”

Marshall Lee buried his face in the squishy pillow—he would prefer the soft one. G.B. thought Marshall Lee wasn’t going to say more and turned to leave. But then, quietly: “You can’t even say it, can you?”

G.B. froze.

Marshall Lee lifted his head from the pillow. If G.B. had been able to move, the look in Marshall Lee’s eyes would have stopped him: he wasn’t angry, or sad, or even frustrated. He was… resigned. “We were the only people who got each other. And you can’t even say it. You can’t even talk to me anymore.”

G.B. just stood there. He had imagined a thousand responses to Marshall Lee ever mentioning what they used to have, but his breath had caught at the look on Marshall Lee’s face. It was… it was real.

Marshall Lee groaned and curled around the pillow. “I want to go to sleep now.” His voice was still very quiet.

G.B. looked at the floor, feeling small. Feeling stupid. But he couldn’t say that. “…I’ll check on you in a few hours to see if the fever’s down.”

Marshall Lee made a noise that might have been acknowledgment. Or maybe “go away.”

***

G.B. had reserved a pillow and a blanket for himself, but he could not get to sleep. He had told the truth about his couch: it was the wrong length for a full-grown man, so his feet stuck out or dangled no matter what position he tried. And it wasn’t wide enough, either. He could only lie on his side, and he felt like he was going to fall off.

Marshall Lee would have had it easier. He was slight and shorter, capable of making himself comfortable wherever he was. Marshall Lee owned the world around him.

G.B. huffed and pressed the pillow against his face. Why was he still thinking about Marshall Lee? He didn’t have class in the morning, true, but getting off his sleep schedule was a terrible idea. G.B., unlike Marshall Lee, could not fall asleep anywhere, anytime.

He shifted because his arm was going numb, and his legs almost fell off the couch. God, the floor would be better, and it was linoleum.

His bed was a queen. There was plenty of room for two people.

G.B. got up. He could do his History of Mathematics reading. Surely that would put him to sleep.

***

It didn’t. He tried watching TedTalks on his tablet, but they weren’t interesting; he tried reading, but nothing held his attention. Something was wrong, and he was avoiding the knowledge.

He glanced at the clock. It was well after one in the morning. Ordinarily, he would be asleep right now, tucked in with the sheets just how he liked them. And maybe music playing in the background—The Postal Service or Death Cab for Cutie. Ben Gibbs always knocked him out.

Well, it had been more than long enough for the ibuprofen to kick in. And Marshall Lee would sleep well past morning no matter when he went to bed. G.B. took the thermometer from his bag and a fresh plastic sleeve.

He hesitated at the door. It wasn’t shut, and Marshall Lee was very well asleep, curled around the pillow like it was another person. One hand clutched the sheets. It was almost a pity to wake him, especially since he would not appreciate it.

But he was shivering, even under the heavy comforter.

G.B. slid the thermometer into the sleeve and walked to the bed. “Marshall Lee.” He didn’t stir. “Marshall Lee.”

G.B. reached out to touch Marshall Lee’s shoulder. Marshall Lee’s eyes snapped open; he caught G.B.’s hand. Both of them blinked, frozen by the contact.

Then Marshall Lee let go and dropped his hand back to the bed, yawning. “Geeze. Give a guy a heart attack, why don’t you.” His voice was more slur than words.

G.B. cleared his throat, ignoring the flutter of his pulse in his wrist. “I wanted to take your temperature again.”

Marshall Lee rolled on his back and held out two fingers. G.B. placed the thermometer in them, and Marshall Lee put it in his mouth. No sexual jokes this time, either. He was very tired.

G.B. bit back a yawn of his own. He wanted to kick Marshall Lee out of bed and go to sleep, but that would be cruel. Especially after all the bother it’d taken to get Marshall Lee there in the first place. The thermometer beeped, and G.B. took it from Marshall Lee’s mouth. He had to crane to read it in the moonlight, but the sight made him frown. “Your fever’s hardly down at all.”

“Explains why I still feel like shit.” Marshall Lee rolled over again and hid his face in the pillow.

G.B. pursed his lips. Then he sat on the side of the bed, crumpling the sleeve in one hand. “…You should see a doctor. You probably need antibiotics.”

“And you don’t have any? Grievous oversight, man. I thought you were all about the Boy Scout thing. Don’t you have a zombie apocalypse plan somewhere?”

“I got that from the government, Marshall Lee.” G.B. shook his head. “I know you’re just trying to change the subject. You need to go to the hospital.”

Marshall Lee raised his head just enough so he could glare at G.B. through one narrowed eye. “No hospitals. Ever.”

“There’s only so much I can do for you, then. It’s not my fault if you want to be miserable for weeks instead of days.” G.B. knew he sounded prim, stuffy, but he couldn’t help it.

“’S just the fucking flu. Jesus. When did that become the end of the world?” He was still glaring at G.B.

And then G.B. was talking, and he wanted to stop himself and he didn’t at the same time. “It’s not just this. You never take care of yourself, Marshall Lee. You go outside without a coat when it’s raining. You don’t wear gloves or hats in the winter. You don’t take your allergy medicine. I—I hate to watch it.”

He paused and looked away, wishing he had longer hair so it could shield his face like Marshall Lee’s. “…I know you’ve never had anybody to take care of you, but somebody has to.”

Marshall Lee didn’t say anything for what felt like forever. G.B. closed his eyes, feeling foolish and sort of—liberated at the same time. He’d forgotten the way the truth always came out around Marshall Lee.

“And that somebody’s you, huh?” said Marshall Lee softly.

“I don’t see anyone else who can do the job.” G.B.’s voice came out sharp, but he didn’t mind that too much. “Everyone you know is a fly-by-night. Except Fionna, of course.”

“And we’re supposed to be looking after her, not the other way around.” G.B. raised his eyebrows, and Marshall Lee shrugged. “Somebody’s got to stop her from becoming as boring as you.”

“I think every time you say ‘boring,’ I’m going to insert ‘sensible.’ Does that sound fair?” This was the longest conversation they’d had in years. And they weren’t even fighting. Not really, anyway. G.B. got to his feet and stretched his arms over his head. “You need to go back to sleep. If you won’t go to the hospital, it’s the only way you’ll get better.”

Marshall Lee mumbled something and rolled over, away from G.B.

***

G.B. fell asleep eventually, when the scales tipped from “tired” to “exhausted,” but he woke when the first rays of sunlight touched his face. It was after seven, but that wasn’t much sleep. He rubbed his forehead. He’d fallen asleep sitting up, and he had an awful crick in his neck.

All this for a guy who didn't even like him. He thought of Marshall Lee's words last night, and a flush touched his cheeks.

Rubbing his neck, G.B. went into his bedroom. Marshall Lee was asleep, curled under the covers to avoid the crack of sunlight spilling through the curtains. G.B. fixed them and watched Marshall Lee relax.

***

When G.B. had showered and dressed, he peeked in his bedroom once more. Marshall Lee wasn't awake, but he was less asleep; he was twitching and muttering to himself. G.B. cracked the curtains. "Thefugwasthat," Marshall Lee mumbled. He buried his head under the pillow.

"It's after ten in the morning," G.B. announced, hoping he didn't sound like he was trying to guilt Marshall Lee into leaving. Even though he wanted to. "Do you want some breakfast?"

The pillow moved enough that G.B. could see a single eye glaring at him. "...Not really. Just wanna sleep."

G.B. sighed, passing a hand over his hair. "And you still won't let me take you to the doctor."

Marshall Lee pulled the pillow over his head again.

G.B. closed the curtains. "Well, if you feel better, I think I'm going to make pancakes."

***

There was a basket of strawberries in G.B.'s fridge. He took out a paring knife and grabbed the wastebasket. One by one, he cut off the green parts and sliced them in half the long way, then in quarters the other way.

He told himself he was only cutting them up because they would go bad if he didn't use them, and pancakes were as good as anything else. Better, really. He had strawberry syrup in there, too.

As he finished the last one, Marshall Lee came out of the bedroom. His clothes were rumpled, and he looked as pale as he had last night. His eyes were not open all the way, but he sat in the chair across from G.B.'s. "Pancakes?" he mumbled.

Marshall Lee wasn't really looking at him, so G.B. thought it was all right to smile. "Strawberry pancakes."

Marshall Lee's lips curled in the faintest of smirks, though his voice was still a tired mumble. "Remind me to kiss you when I don't have the plague."

G.B.'s eyes narrowed. But it wasn’t worth picking a fight. They weren’t going to acknowledge what had really happened between them, and that was fine. It was. Better this way. No more fights in front of Fionna. So he flicked one of the green bits at Marshall Lee and felt better when it stuck to his wrist. "That's sexual harassment, Marshall Lee. Hasn't anyone ever told you that?"

Marshall Lee opened his mouth, then closed it again. He shook his head and set it on the table. "I must be sick 'f I'm flirting with you."

G.B. bit the inside of his cheek. It did nothing to stop the blush from spreading to his cheeks. At least Marshall Lee had his eyes closed. "I was hoping that you'd stop being so inappropriate with a fever, but apparently that was a vain dream."

Marshall Lee scowled. "I hate it when you call me that. 'Inappropriate.' I'm a rock star. Impropriety is, like, my job."

"Yes, but you're not on stage now. You're in my house, and you're sick as a pig. So quit it." He sprinkled sugar on the strawberries, then set them aside. He rose to start making the pancake mix.

But the motions were too familiar to distract him; he'd learned to make pancakes at his father's knee, while his mother slept in the bedroom. Something was turning over inside of him. "...You know, it's not what you say that bothers me."

He didn't realize he'd said it aloud until Marshall Lee lifted his head. "Jeeze. I must be hallucinating or something if you're trying to have a serious conversation with me. This is, like, what, the third one in a row? What's up with you, man?"

G.B.'s hands stilled. Then he turned, without realizing he was going to do it, and continued. "See, that's what I mean. You aren't being sincere right now. You are just—trying to irritate me."

Marshall Lee paused, one hand poised to steal a strawberry. “What?” The sleep had left his eyes; despite his illness, he was really, truly there with G.B.

G.B. swallowed. He didn’t want to be honest with Marshall Lee, but he couldn’t leave a thing unfinished, either. “You are—lewd and disgusting, but it isn’t you, not the deep-down you, and you let people think it is. I hate watching you lie, Marshall Lee!” He realized he was speaking fast and loud. He shut up, glaring at the floor because he couldn’t look Marshall Lee in the eye.

Marshall Lee flexed his fists, like a jungle cat unsheathing his claws. “It’s like that again, huh?” His voice was low, a purr, but such was Marshall Lee at his most dangerous. “You’re going to tell me who to be?” He swallowed. “I didn’t leave because you yelled at me, you know. I left ‘cause you wanted to put me in a box, just like everybody else. I can’t take that. Not from you.”

G.B. froze. Not because he was shocked that Marshall Lee had defied expectations and mentioned the ending of… them. But because there was too much piling up in his head. It wasn’t like before, when he laid around waiting for Marshall Lee to come back. Then his mind had been focused: he was miserable, but he’d turned his misery into cutting words, and it had been easy because that was the only thing in his head.

But now he was running in a thousand directions at once. We’re doing this now?

How dare you say that you leaving was my fault?

I never wanted you in a box. I wanted you just the way you were.

Frowning, Marshall Lee brushed his fingers over his lips. “You always made me happy, but that just made it worse when I was sad.”

G.B. flinched. That was the chorus to one of Marshall Lee’s songs. “Don’t push back at me just because you don’t want to tell the truth.” G.B. pressed his hands against his face, hating the way they smelled of strawberries. “I don’t even know why I’m saying this.”

“I got a case of the flu. You got a case of the guilties.” Marshall Lee got to his feet.

“Sit!” G.B. said. “Stay put!” Marshall Lee opened his mouth. “Don’t ask me why—it’s because you’re wrong.”

Marshall Lee did not sit down, but he did not move, either. He hooked his thumbs in his pockets. “So talk, Bubba. It’s what you’re good at, ain’t it?”

G.B. pressed his fingers to his temples. “Please stop using improper grammar just to upset me, Marshall Lee.” He took in a deep breath and let it out. It did not calm his thoughts or his flush, and he was walking toward Marshall Lee before he realized. “I got—angry with you, yes. You know how to needle me, and you use it, but that wasn’t why I… yelled at you. It’s never why I yell at you. You just lie to me, all the freaking time.”

“Such language, Bubba.” Marshall Lee’s voice was a purr, all danger and silent promises of trouble. “What would Pepper think?”

“You’re doing it right now!” G.B. was only inches away. “You act like some big tough jerk who doesn’t want anybody’s help. Marshall Lee wants sex, not love. Marshall Lee hates his mom. Marshall Lee is the baddest cat in the alley, and don’t you ever forget it.”

He reached forward—to what purpose, he couldn’t say because his head was mixed up, like he had the high fever—but Marshall Lee grabbed his wrist, so hard it almost hurt. “How do you know it’s an act, sugarplum?”

G.B. knew better than to pull away; Marshall Lee was faster, and the moment you showed weakness, he used it. “Because I remember everything about you.”

Marshall Lee’s lips parted in a perfect ‘o’ of surprise.

G.B. was so angry he felt it like pressure pounding against his temples. “Let go of me.”

“No.” G.B.’s eyes narrowed. “I said no, gumdrop.” Marshall Lee’s eyes moved over G.B.’s face. “You get away from me too easy. You talk and talk and talk, but you never listen when I say anything back. I gotta make you stay put somehow, cupcake.”

“Then quit calling me food names! It’s G.B., dammit!”

Marshall Lee ignored this, as G.B. knew he would. His words took a long time, like he was thinking hard. “So you see me sometimes, yeah. Big fucking deal. I can never tell if you like it or not. You ever think of that when I’m giving you shit? You’ve always known what I felt, no matter how hard I tried to hide it. I can’t do the same thing. I can’t figure you out.”

G.B. wanted to pull his hand away from Marshall Lee’s and run like a rabbit. He wanted to, but he wouldn’t, because even if there was a coward inside him, he would never let Marshall Lee see it. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Marshall Lee’s head tipped back, like he was praying for patience. “Yes, you do, G.B.”

Hearing his name from Marshall Lee’s lips made him stiffen.

“Come on. You know.” The grip around his wrist loosened, became a caress. Marshall Lee pressed G.B.’s palm to his chest and slid it up until it covered the too-fast beat of his heart. He looked up into G.B.’s eyes.

Now G.B. did pull away. He pressed that hand to his throat, because his breath was coming short and with difficulty. “Just—”

He turned away. His words had dried up. He looked at his hands, clenched on the countertop, and took breaths through his mouth until his lungs relaxed. It took time, and he just stood there for a while after that.

Marshall Lee spoke into the silence like a man dropping a stone down a well to test the depth. “Thought you were making pancakes, Jeebles.”

“You just pick the strawberries out anyway.”

***

Marshall Lee went back to bed after that. G.B. sat on the couch, his headphones in as he flipped through page after page of an ebook he wasn’t reading. No matter how loud he turned up the music, he still heard Marshall Lee’s voice.

***

Marshall Lee came out of the bedroom near dark. “Would you go with me?”

G.B. pulled the buds from his ears. “What?”

Marshall Lee put his hands on the arm of the couch. “If I went to the hospital. Would you go with me?” The look in his eyes suggested it was of supreme importance.

G.B. rubbed his forehead with the base of his palm. He saw none of the deadly seriousness that had been in Marshall Lee’s eyes in the kitchen, but he also didn’t see the irreverence that irritated him so. Nevertheless. He wanted Marshall Lee gone so he could start picking up the pieces Marshall Lee left in his wake. And forget about the feel of Marshall Lee’s heart, fast and fluttering, under his palm. “Why? It’s just around the corner.”

Marshall Lee leaned over the couch. His cheeks were flushed; G.B. sat up, despite himself, because it certainly looked like Marshall Lee’s fever was worse. “Because you die if you go to the hospital by yourself. Everybody knows that.”

G.B. opened his mouth to say that he’d been to the hospital by himself a thousand times and nothing had happened. Then he thought better of it. Marshall Lee was never much for rational reasoning, even when he felt good. He was ill. G.B. shouldn’t hold it against him.

What it was he refused to quantify. “I’ve already fed you and let you sleep in my bed. Reading out-of-date hospital magazines while you see the doctor is hardly a sacrifice.”

***

G.B. walked with Marshall Lee to the hospital; he didn't bother calling in beforehand because he knew there was no way he would get an appointment. The hospital was always full up—too few staff and too many sick people, especially this time of year.

They sat in the waiting room of the ER; G.B. picked a spot by a wall because sitting by people he didn't know made him uncomfortable, and he had enough of a problem with that on the subway.

G.B. had suspected it would take them a while to get around to Marshall Lee, and it did. He, after all, only had a fever, and people around them sounded like they were coughing up their guts.

The room got more and more crowded as they waited. G.B. flipped through his email on his tablet. Marshall Lee drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair between them, his knees, his temples. And he got smaller and smaller with each person that came in; he pressed his flushed cheek to his shoulder and avoided the eyes of the sick and injured.

"Relax, would you?" G.B. whispered.

"But it smells like death in here," Marshall Lee whispered back. "How can you stand it?"

"Marshall Lee. Really. It's a hospital. People come here to get better." Marshall Lee was clearly not convinced. He started drumming his fingers on the arm again; G.B. caught his hand and closed his own around it. "Sit still."

Marshall Lee pressed his face into his shoulder again, but he stopped fidgeting as long as G.B. held onto his hand.

***

Fionna brought her soup by the next morning. She couldn't stay, since she had school, and Cake would have murdered her for spending so much time around two boys anyway.

Marshall Lee left G.B.'s house with antibiotics, one of G.B.'s coats, and Fionna's soup in several tupperware containers. That didn't mean he'd use any of them, but at least G.B. knew there was nothing else he could have done.

After Marshall Lee left, G.B. took out his iPod and scrolled until he saw the album Marshall Lee put out when he reappeared. G.B. didn't search the lyrics for meaning or anything, but he still listened, one hand rubbing the wrist that bore faint bruises from Marshall Lee's grip.

**Author's Note:**

> I promise this is not the end, and that I will keep writing until it's finished.


End file.
